


The Women of the Odyssey

by Humanity_Sucks2002



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Odyssey - Homer
Genre: Character Study, Coming of Age, Emotions, F/M, Gen, Gods and Goddesses, Infidelity, Odyssey, They all deserve better, Violence, classics student rambles, honestly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanity_Sucks2002/pseuds/Humanity_Sucks2002
Summary: My Classics Teacher set us a task to create something to explore what the women in the Odyssey represent/mean for the poem etc.I did this. Yay
Relationships: Calypso/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Circe/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Odysseus/Penelope, Odysseus/Penelope (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), melantho/eurymachus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Penelope

_“I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. “All right,” I said, “I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”_   
**Daisy Buchannan (F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby)**

Penelope’s work was silent. Perhaps it always had been, just now that metaphor had become reality.

Threads fell limp out of the loom. The suitors would be sound asleep about now, the darkness had settled over the world quite a while ago. Fools. She tugged harder on the threads, failing to pull it apart properly, instead just knotting the thread worse. Clicking with her tongue, irritated, Penelope used her fingernails to try to fix her error. It was hard work. Although her eyes were very adjusted to the lack of light, the darkness and the black of the thread seemed to blend together.

  
Tomorrow would be no different than today, she ruminated. There were no days nor nights anymore, there was only time. She’d sit at her window, her eyes flitting between Telemachus running delighted around the courtyard with a toy sword and the sun dial. The shadow changed; the boy changed but Penelope didn’t. He grew, the shadows grew, why couldn’t she? Once, her heart would have raged against the thought of the recycled hours, repeating over and over till Thanatos’ dark embrace greeted her, the slicing of the thread of her life the Fates held. Loneliness, however, had crippled her. How many times could she weep over the same thing before her tears dried up? Ten years of war she could handle, at least she had his letters to comfort her, but the years of unknowns? One could not express the torture!

  
False smiles were the gilded lead cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Penelope sighed as she finally released the knot and was able to continue her work. How had they not worked out this plot yet? These boys -and they were boys, children young enough to be her sons acting like grown men trying to court her – these boys had other women in their lives. They had been around weaving their entire existences; how had they not realised that a single shroud doesn’t take years to create? Every time their glassy eyes nodded at the proclamation that the shroud wasn’t finished, Penelope found herself wishing Athene herself would just appear before them and smack some intelligence into their thick skulls. Even if they found her out then, at least there would be more than four braincells between them.

  
An owl shrieked eerily as it soared past the palace. Its ghostly, white form made the perfect creature stand out in the dark.

Penelope found herself wondering if Helen was happy in her life now. She hoped so. If nothing else good had come from the war, at least her cousin was home and safe again. Her daughter (Hermione wasn’t it?) had a worst start in life than Telemachus; her mother kidnapped and her father absent, alone and neglected in Sparta. Had Hermione been a boy, Penelope wondered, would Menelaus have brought his child with him to Troy? Hard to say. Achilles did, but only when he was old enough to fight. Agamemnon didn’t, to her knowledge. Perhaps it was a blessing that the war ended when it did: was it entirely unlikely that Odysseus would have called for her baby if the situation required it? He wouldn’t want to hurt her, she knew that, but she wouldn’t put it past him to steal Telemachus from her arms and throwing him before the sword. Even the thought of that horror forced the bile to rise in her throat.

  
How much simpler would life be if she could just stop thinking so much? She would just smile at the sunrise, put on something pretty and take a new husband. She’d be happy! Maybe she’d have more children and actually have a support in doing so, not just be left adrift, anchors up, Amphitrite’s whims in control rather than human choice. If she could just stop, turn off her brain and smile everything would be so much simpler. Athene had cursed her though. What is the point of her having the capacity to think if she wasn’t allowed to use it? Penelope was not a woman to dabble in hubris, but if she was, she would question why the Goddess of Wisdom thought it wise to give her talents to someone incapable of using it to any real effect.

  
Her days work undone; Penelope cracked her neck sideways. She did the same to her stiff fingers. The popping was the only sound in the silent room. The bed beckoned and, in her dreams, she knew she’d see Odysseus again, his ridiculous, perfect, beautiful, genius, stupid face. It was all she wished for and all she despised. How was she supposed to move on when he lingered in her dreams? How much easier would life be if she was a fool? Throwing the threads aside and climbing into the bed, Penelope made her mind up. She’d have joy in her life, instead of this pain. After all, in this world of men, how could a woman have a brain?


	2. Calypso

“I have little left in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh -- may call me absurd, selfish -- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”  
 **Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre**

  
He cowered in the corner of the cave. Head in his hands, tears dripped through the gabs between his fingers. Drip. Drip. Drip. The dew-drop tears hit the stone floor, the pitter patter of his soul’s rain. On his cheek, there was a large, pink hand-shaped mark: fresh, but on its way to being a deep, purple and black bruise. Wheezing breaths, heard between the quiet wails of his misery, revealed the injury that decorated his ribs. She could not see it through his robes, but Calypso knew that it was there. It had to be; the stone she’d launched at him was rather large and rather granite. She’d just been too angry with him. Sure, maybe he didn’t see it now, but this was good for him. It broke her heart though, to see him cry like that. But he shouldn’t have been so rude! He had to learn!

  
Calypso had elected to ignore him, let him come to his senses by himself. Softly singing, the goddess turned her back to Odysseus and continued work on her weaving. Soon, she knew he’d come back to her, beg her forgiveness. Afterall, if he didn’t, he would be sleeping on the floor. He’d tried it before. A sleepless, uncomfortable night, lying on the gravel had worked well in Calypso’s book; the next night he was back in bed with her and the whole business had been forgotten. It’s not like Odysseus had anywhere to go.

  
“Penelope,” wept Odysseus- the only word recognizable in his sobs- “Penelope forgive me…”

  
Infuriated, Calypso stopped singing. Penelope. Penelope. Penelope. Why wouldn’t he stop talking about that damn wench Penelope? Did Penelope pull him from the jaws of death? When the sea threatened to pull him under, steal his breath and swallow him whole, was it Penelope that saved him? Did Penelope save him from Poseidon himself- old Earthshaker? When he was cold, shivering in fear and frost, was it Penelope that gave him food, ambrosia no less, and kept him warm? Did Penelope stoke the fires, keep the blankets clean, maintained and warm? No. NO. That mortal whore could do no such thing. So useless a creature could not possibly match up to her.

  
Calypso set down her weaving, with a little huff. What was she to do with him? How was she to make him see that this was truly the place for him? Orgyia is the most beautiful place in the world. The surrounding sea – which he was now SAFE from need she add, again – was the most glorious shade of turquoise great Gaia had ever produced. Hyperion and Helios always shone down smiling on Orgyia and, on the rare times that they weren’t, the storms were so spectacular that one could not help but be enchanted by them. The magic of the flora enveloped Calypso’s grotto, even her home was overflowing with plant and animal life. Orchids entwined in the arms of the hyacinths wrapped around her doorways. Above Odysseus’ weeping form, an ancient grape vine grew. If he to sit up to quickly from his current, curled up ball, position Odysseus would have been hit in the face with the grapes. Even the light tap of the grape bunch would have forced a wince of pain from his throat. The injured skin was too raw for anything to touch it.

  
Calypso was not sure what to do, how could she show him he was in paradise? How could be possibly want to leave? How could he be so ungrateful to her – a GODDESS - who had stooped down from her place among the immortals and sort to help him? A puny mortal had caught the attention of a beautiful goddess and he wasn’t even grateful for that attention. No. instead he cried. He spurned her affections and preferred to just cry, cry like a new-born lamb, for his wife. A mortal wife who most certainly would have forgotten about him by now. It’s not like mortals are known for their fantastic attention spans?!

  
Incensed to fury, Calypso jumped to her feet and stormed over to the cowering man.

  
“SAY HER NAME!” She shrieked, startling Odysseus, who had been too absorbed in his own misery to notice that she was still in the room beforehand. “SAY HER NAME AGAIN! SAY IT, AND I SWEAR ON HOLY ZEUS’ NAME I WILL THROW YOU BACK TO THE SEA FROM WHENCE YOU CAME!” A violent kick exploded out of the woman who, seconds before had been demurely weaving like any good spider. She was barefoot, but the kick was hard enough from pure power alone to completely wind him. Doubled over in pain, for she had kicked the healing bruise, Odysseus could not respond to her assault. “LET’S SEE HOW YOU ENJOY AMPHITRITE’S HOSPITALITY! LET’S SEE HOW POSIDON WELCOMES HIS GUEST!”

  
“Calypso… Calypso”

  
“DO NOT ‘CALYPSO’ ME!” She screamed, getting ready to strike again. Odysseus however, concealing his pain well, jumped aside before her foot made contact with him. Thinking fast, he knelt before her, eyes locked and open, ready to lie through his teeth. As genuine as he could, Odysseus smiled and stretched his hands out imploringly to Calypso.

  
“My dear, forgive me. I forgot myself and who I was in the presence of; I was simply lost in a terrible memory.” Smoothly, Odysseus offered his explanation. Calypso calmed slightly. She had been poised, ready to redouble her efforts to teach him a lesson, but as he spoke her demeanour changed. Her arm, that had been ready to strike, fell limp at her side. Her face, that was contorted in fury, became calm, as if the wind in her sails had dropped. Seeing this as an opportunity, Odysseus took one of her hands in his gently. “Let us not have a misunderstanding come between friends. I would never forgive myself if you, my most wonderful rescuer, were unhappy with me.” Calypso’s heart soared. She knew it! No man, especially not one as supremely intelligent as this, would ever purposefully seek to offend her. Oh, how lovely he was, she knew he couldn’t be the terror she’d thought he was being. “My Lady, I would never purposefully hurt you, please accept my humblest of apologies.”

  
Calypso accepted his apology by leaning in as kissing gently. Seemingly not noticing his little shiver of revulsion, she smiled serenely back at him. How she could switch from psychotic to sweet in an instant was yet a mystery to Odysseus, but he thanked whatever God was watching out for him that these moods were easily shifted.

  
“All forgiven my love. Let us put this behind us, we have all the time in the world!” Calypso grinned, then stepped around his broken form and returned to the seat she’d vacated.

  
Suddenly everything went back to normal. Calypso was singing and weaving once more and Odysseus was allowed to sit on the furniture again. Laying back on the fur covered lounge, Odysseus closed his eyes. Everything hurt. Nothing he had as part of himself was free of pain; mind, body or soul. Whirling mind, desperate for some wonderful plan to emerge in his brain, he focused on just keeping breathing. And, that plan could not come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched Misery by Stephan King before I wrote this one, and Annie Wilkes reminded me of Calypso so much that this is the result. I apologize to anyone who likes Calypso.


	3. Melantho

_“O Rose thou art sick.  
The invisible worm,  
That flies in the night  
In the howling storm:  
Has found out thy bed  
Of crimson joy:  
And his dark secret love  
Does thy life destroy.”_   
**William Blake**

Tears streamed down blood splattered cheeks. Melantho was kneeling on the stone floors, cleaning up the splattered, desiccated remains of her lover. His severed head sitting in her lap, Melantho had wept. The tendrils of his torn neck ligaments and spine were the streamers of a kite behind his head. Once beautiful eyes were glass, their blue sea calmed forever. It was strange; his head did not look real somehow. Like this cadaver head was but a wax replica. If she had not seen the decapitation herself, Melantho would be tempted to think that this was a fantastic replica, made to traumatise her. But no. His life blood stained her. Scarlet hands, scarlet clothes. He’d had her scarlet heart in his hands, now she held his head in hers. Αναπαύσου εν ειρήνη. Requiescat in pace. Rest in peace. Goodbye Eurymachus.

  
They all hated her for this. Whore. It had been whispered in her direction, darting eyes ensuring she knew they were speaking about her, so many times that it might as well have become her new name. Family refused to speak to her anymore; her actions to ‘shameful’ to be associated with. Melantho didn’t see what was so wrong with it. They were hypocrites, those who cheered when Herakles or Theseus slept around hissed in her direction. Treated her like she was a dirty thing. A scarlet stain upon the earth, as Sappho had written once.

  
Others looked at her like she was an abused child. A used woman. Why, she thought, was it so surprising that a woman could make a choice? A choice to enjoy her youth. A choice to be spoiled by someone with the money to do so. Eurymachus was a man who liked to throw his money and power around, what girl wouldn’t love to be treated like a Queen? She never would be otherwise. However much Penelope had pretended to care for her as a child, Melantho knew she’d never be able to break out of her low social standing. She would never have these beautiful things. She would have to work. She would have to slave away for someone who would never appreciate how hard she worked to keep them comfortable.

  
Melantho didn’t expect for Telemachus to smack her over the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. An explosion of pressure. Loss of breath as the wind was kicked out of her lungs. Bright light flashed crossed her vison, even as she blinked repeatedly trying to get it to go away. There wasn’t even any pain. She was just stunned, shocked by the strange realization that something very awful had happened. Telemachus had never been violent. A kind child, they’d played together, played prince and princess, monster and hero. He’d always stop, wait for her when his legs moved faster than hers, pick her up when she fell, helped clean her knees when she skinned them. The hardness, in his eyes was as foreign as the numbness that spread across the point of impact. Empathy was gone. The passage of remorse had been stoppered. This man was not the boy she’d played with for all those years.

  
Hyperventilating, Melantho realized she was doomed. This was the end. They would not have called someone they were planning on pardoning in here to clean the carnage. They would not look at her like that – an animal, a terrible monster, a child of Typhon and Echidna ready for some hero to come and destroy her. But how was she a monster, all she’d done was seek the best of the human experience? You only live once, she’d told herself the first time he’d taken her into his arms, why not live it? There is no point living in fear and never experiencing anything. Did she regret that now, now that her childhood friend was dragging her by the hair towards the door? No. No she did not regret the sentiment, she did not regret her actions. Perhaps she regretted the way she had behaved to the people around her, but she did not believe they were entirely innocent creatures either. Their words to her hurt just as much as her words to them did. Even as Telemachus looped the noose around her neck, the last necklace she would ever wear, Melantho had no regrets.

  
Tears streamed down blood splattered cheeks. They were still wet on her face as her cadaver swung- limp, lifeless, lonely- from the wizened olive tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sappho was not alive when the Odyssey was written, but I read one of her poems yesterday and it just fit. So.. yeah


	4. Circe

_Never put your faith in a Prince. When you require a miracle, trust in a witch.”_ _  
_ **Catherine M. Valente, “In the Night Garden”**

  
Odysseus was asleep when Circe began her spell. Carnation, cinnamon, celandine and comfrey were already sliced and boiling away in the cauldron. The light bubbling from it was a dark purple hue. It alighted her face in harsh shadows; her eyes completely obscured from sight. Only the light reflecting in the empty blackness of her pupils, tiny white slits of white, could be seen. Silently, the sorceress’ hands worked. A knife in one hand, a quivering black swallow in the other, and, with a flick of her wrist, the bird’s blood was stirred into the pot. It’s feathers soon followed, their black colour deeply darkening the colour of the light emanating from the potion.

  
The power was intoxicating to her. Finger tips fluttering over the stack of herbs next to her, Circe considered why she was even doing this. Killing him would be so much simpler. She still could, her hands hovered over the hemlock for a second before deciding against it. Poisoning is a coward’s weapon anyway and she was better than that. Still, she caught sight of the belladonna in the corner of her vision. Apparently, belladonna tastes sweet, like a normal blueberry, and he’d never know. A nice treat, feeling sleepy and then no more problems.  
But, how boring would that be? Black swan blood entered the potion, stirring it slowly as it grew thicker and lumpier. A porridge like consistency now, Circe sprinkled in the granules of horse hove she had collected previously. If she killed them now, didn’t help them, then she would go back to waiting for unluckily sailors to land, transforming them and using them for entertainment. A man-leopard whined as he slinked past her work station, making her giggle inwardly. There were only so many times she could experiment with their humanity before it became boring.

  
Burning hawthorn had released a pungent odour before she plunged it into the spell. The smell permeated the room and seemed to irritate Odysseus’ nose in his sleep. Hopefully it wouldn’t wake him. Hawthorn promotes energy and it would take a stronger spell to knock him out afterwards. Never mind, she thought as he just turned over.

  
Circe decided to help Odysseus and his men.

In her hands lay the ability to let them live or die. Benevolence or malevolence? The choice was completely hers and there was no way he could stop her. Power. The power in her hands was immense and she loved it. A large pinch of lithium was thrown into the cauldron and its reaction with the liquid inside caused a small, purple explosion. Her face, visible for the first time in the bright, lilac light, was contorted in frenzied glee. Immediately, the light went out and she was back in complete darkness.

  
Of course, she could admit that the fact he had two Olympians at his side rendered her a little more likely to help; Circe did not need the Goddess of Wisdom and the God of Trickery going against her. Think of all the trouble that would cause her! There would be no sailors stupid enough to land on her island, there would be no mischief at her disposal to keep them there even if they did. No, it would be better to have Athene and Hermes’ good sides. That did not inspire her to kill him, not at all. She did also have to admit that he had taken her by surprise with the moli and the sword thing, but her pride would not let her attribute that to him. No. That was the Olympians doing to be sure. As she thought this, a shriek and a loud swear emanated from where she’d housed the crew and all Odysseus did was grunt loudly from the bed and pull the pillow over his ears. Definitely the Olympians.

  
The potion complete, Circe eyed the liquid questioningly. To help, or not to help, that was the question. She sighed. Help, she would help him. Gently, she lowered a drinking cup into the potion and filled it up to the brim. It looked like wine, Circe thought. Wouldn’t taste like it though. Circe lifted the glass in a toast to nobody in particular, not even the moon was visible to toast to, before downing the liquid like a shot and throwing the cup at a crying man-tiger that had slunk out of the shadows.

  
Magic swirling through her body, Circe’s eyes went blank and glassy. Her mind and body were in separate places. She could see everything! Crashing waves, so tall they would crush the tall spires of Olympus itself, surrounding a lost little ship; the haunting melody of music too beautiful to bear; the blood and screams of men harmonized with the malignant roar Circe knew all too well; baking heat and hunger made worse by the baying of the cattle around them. Interspersed between the images, the booming voices of the Gods could be heard. Just snippets of convocation but enough to know that it was not merely Athene and Hermes who were at his aid.

  
She came to with a start. Hands quivering, Circe stood for a moment contemplating what she had just seen. ‘Oh, that poor fool’- she thought, looking towards the sleeping Odysseus sadly. ‘Home is a long way off yet.’ And, she finalized her decision decisively, I will help you get there. Circe straightened out her clothing before hurrying towards her map room. She would sleep later, how could she be tired after a day like this? And, after all, she had work to do.


	5. Nausicca

_“As long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking.”_   
**Virginia Woolf, Orlando**

Nausicaa was torn. Disappointed, relieved, ashamed and joyous.

  
It was difficult for her to explain why; she couldn’t say she’d felt so conflicted in her life. Nausicaa sat beside her father at dinner, picking at her meal. It was her favourite, but the sickly feeling in her stomach didn’t incline her to eat. The fish was cooked beautifully, smelled so fantastic that on any other occasion her mouth would be watering uncontrollably, and the sides also were very eye catching. But she just couldn’t bring herself to eat it.

  
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Her father said, reassuringly, patting her shoulder in that very fatherly form of awkward affection, “plenty of other men will come around. Many would kill or die to marry the princess of Phoenicia.”

He was trying to be comforting, Nausicaa knew that, but it was not helpful. Instead of calming her nerves, her father’s words only sparked them further. He was disappointed in her, she could feel it. No amount of love for her would make up for the fact he could have had a Trojan war hero as a son-in-law.

  
That was the thing, she was disappointed too. She wasn’t good enough for him to notice her. Even as his rescuer, she was not pretty enough or interesting enough to attract his attention. She knew it could not be her riches; no other state in the world could compare to the wealth of Phoenicia. It had to be her. Fearfully, she sat at the table, running through her traits in her mind. To explain what had happened, she sat destroying her own self esteem by harshly critiquing herself. Her hair was brown, not the fashionable red, perhaps he would have stayed if she possessed those scarlet locks? Her eyes were too close together and, if she thought about it, her lips were too thin. They were just lines on her face, not really lips, nothing that would tempt anyone to lean in for a kiss. Odysseus did not want to; how could Nausicaa expect any other man to?

  
Yet, why was there a spike of relief sitting in her chest? Relief that, at least for now, she would get to remain a child. That could not be bad, could it? While the thought of growing up was exciting, it would be so much of a change going from maiden to wife that the very thought of it made her feel a little sick. Wearing a veil, being in charge of a house, having children of her own: that could not be anything other than terrifying, could it?

  
Her mother, Arete, was sat across the table from her. She had her veil pushed up over the top of her head, out of the way of her as she ate. She seemed deep in thought. Nausicaa wondered if she had felt this way before she’d married her father. Most likely. Nausicaa could not imagine that any woman would not, no matter how well they knew or how much they loved their soon to be husband.

  
“At least,” Her mother said softly, stabbing a bit of fish with her knife. “you can say that you did a good deed. Without you, darling, he wouldn’t have gotten home. And, besides Alcinous, Odysseus has a wife already. Nausicaa would not have had a chance anyway, there is no need to try and make her feel guilty.”

  
“I was not!” Insisted her husband, mouth agape “I was literally doing the opposite!”

  
“Yes, you were. It’s reverse psychology. I heard a philosopher talking about it once.” Arete nodded, cutting the fish elegantly with her knife. A ghost of a smile hovered on her lips, and an almost imperceptible quirk of her cheek let Nausicaa know she was on her side.

As her father tried to argue his case against her mother, Nausicaa tried to stifle her laughter. Laodamas, who was sat next to her mother, slowly lowered his head to the table and pretended to smack in up and down. He was hungover and their parent’s bickering did not improve his headache. Biting down on her lip, her shoulders shaking lightly and pink cheeks, Nausicaa could not think of another home she’d rather be living in.

  
Still, Nausicaa had not been aware that Odysseus was married. They had not allowed her to stay in the room when Odysseus had told his story; she had heard the vague details from her brother after the fact. Peeved as she was at that lack of respect, that news made her feel a little bit better. Perhaps she was not a grotesque monster? Instead, she was a beautiful distraction for an honest man on the way back to his wife. How romantic! Both in the sense that there would be a touching reunion between him and his wife and because she was a heroine.

  
Nausicaa could see it now: he’d walk up to the home, drop his bags to the ground as his wife, a beautiful woman (she was sure), sees him. Joy and love in her face, the wife would call out to him and run down to meet him. He’d take her into his arms, sweep her around and dip kiss her. The sun would set behind them and he would carry her back into the home she’d kept for him. It would be beautiful! Like something out of a ballad! Siting up, acting rather like a bird who puffed up it’s feathers in an attempt to look bigger, Nausicaa smiled. She could handle that.

  
A heroine, one who unites of lost souls. There were many a worse title to hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We spent a whole lesson in Classics when we got the Phoenicia chapter basically just cringing about Homer hinting that Odysseus might be tempted to stay with Nausicaa WHO IS LIKE FOURTEEN!!!! How fun when you read a text from the ancient world that allows you to see how far we’ve come as a human species!


	6. Athena

“Two thousand years ago, we lived in a world of Gods and Goddesses. Today, we live in a world solely of Gods. Women in most cultures have been stripped of their spiritual power.”  
Dan Brown

The story was over, the curtain fell, the standing ovation received, the last page had been turned, and Athena felt a little put out. On one hand, it was a spectacular ending but on the other there would be no more use for her talents in it. Who needs cunning, plots, daring escapes and adventures when they are just living the quiet life? They don’t. Perhaps a king would need more of that brand of intelligence than a slave, but Odysseus was smart enough to do that alone. What else could Athena do? Years of her life had been kind of dedicated to helping this man and, now he did not need her help anymore, Athena felt a bit aimless. 

She stood in the shadows, invisible, watching the newly reunited family. Penelope was weeping, chuckling lightly under her breath and had Odysseus’ face cupped in her hand. He had his hand atop of hers and was holding onto her waist tightly, as if he was worried that she was going to slip away. Telemachus was hovering, a restless kestrel, at his parents’ side not sure whether to leave them or to stay. He was as close to Athene that she could have reached out and touched him.

This was ridiculous! She was a goddess for goodness sake, every mortal on the planet held her in the highest esteem. A great number of them would die, kill, steal, destroy everything they loved, for a chance to have her as a patron. Maybe she should work with Telemachus next? He had the potential, but would he ever get the chance to express it properly? Everyone on Olympus (aside from Ares obviously) were bored of war now after the Troy situation so it was unlikely that they would get behind another big one. Maybe she should go for another family? Someone completely different may be more interesting and would have less baggage. 

Odysseus began to tell the tale of where he had been and had both Penelope and Telemachus hanging off every word. Deep, sombre timbre echoing off the stone walls, in the darkening light, created quite the atmosphere for Odysseus’ story. Interestingly, he left out any infidelity he’d committed during the journey. Probably for the best; Athene could not see an instance where Penelope would be pleased to hear about Circe or Calypso. At every near-death experience Penelope would gasp and Telemachus would laugh excitedly. Such a storyteller, Athena rolled her eyes affectionately. 

Death - the action or fact of dying or being killed; the end of the life of a person or organism. Human’s mortality was both the most interesting and infuriating part of her patronage. On one hand, the adventure would not be fun in any way if there were no consequences. There is no entertainment without fear of loss. If there was not a chance of destruction, would anyone listen to the stories of the bards? But then it came to situations like this. Athena had put so much time, so much work, into Odysseus and now the game was over. A happy ending to be sure, but one tinged with mundanity. He would be king, have his wife and son around him and then would die. That was the problem with them. Lives so short: they died too soon. So delicate. A smack to the head could kill them instantly. It was miserable, all that talent she’d fostered gone. 

They were all crying again now. The realisation that Odysseus really was home hitting them like a wave, mother, father and son wept. For the lost years and the joyous reunion. Athena was taken aback by the scale. Humans. So small, how do they contain so many emotions? A mystery to be revealed at a later date, she concluded, and made for the exit. Maybe she would be back, or maybe not: she did not have the gift of prophecy, that field was best left to Apollo. 

Athena stopped and turned before leaving properly. She wanted one last look at her hard work before she left him in the peace he really did deserve. Eyes were squeezed shut, tears sliding down his cheeks, with his hair falling over one of his eyes lazily. He held Penelope close, as close as it was physically possible for a human to so, and held Telemachus equally as close in the other. A happy family – what was that like? With a smile and a nod in Odysseus’ direction, Athena turned her back. She would miss him, but there were other games to play.


End file.
